


Survival of the Fittest

by Lunasa



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Future Fic, Gen, Hunger Games
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-10
Updated: 2012-04-20
Packaged: 2017-11-23 19:52:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/625921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunasa/pseuds/Lunasa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here's the schpeal: 100 years after the "Fire Revolution", a.k.a, Katniss's whole assault on the Capitol. Basically, everyone "good" dies off, and the Capitol is returned to it's "former glory", and they brought the Hunger Games back. History re-written? Maybe....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ella Hopkins

     Have you ever experienced that feeling, when it just doesn’t matter? It doesn’t matter what you do anymore, that all you _can_ do is simply accept it. That someone else is toying with you, that no matter what you do, absolutely nothing, that you cannot control it. No, you probably haven’t. I’m sure you also haven’t been shoved inside an arena forced to die like a test rat. Mhmm, that’s the beauty of the Hunger Games. It IS a game, to see which stereotype will win. Will it be the smart ones? The powerful ones? The cunning ones? The evasive ones? The ones who just wait it out, who can survive any circumstance? Who have lived their whole life already training every single day, preparing for their moment in the arena, or able to stand the severe and harsh conditions of the wild? Of course they will win, but the question is, who? Which one?      And so beings the betting. Betting brings on money, money brings on sponsors, and the stereotype-of-choice gets a nice little push into the final four, in the least. Lucky them. But why  shouldn’t they help those people? Who else should they help? Oh, yeah, wait a second, the other competitors. The ones who get 3’s or 4’s points in the Training Center. THOSE ones. But why should they help THEM? They certainly won’t win. Don’t waste your money on them. On me.

     My story isn’t dramatic. It’s your typical reaping story. Not loved enough by anyone to volunteer for me. I was just the girl. The girl with the perks. The girl with the Peacekeeper parents. The one who can just shield behind her mother or father when trouble calls. I grew up in District 2, a.k.a. the “pet district”. I’ve never experienced hunger. I’ve never had to fend for myself.  I’ve never had to go to sleep one single night, worried about how to live the next day. I grew up in a nice house, with nice clothes, and a supposedly nice life. My life was like a present. It looked so nice and pretty on the outside, delicately put together, yet no one knows what is on the inside. Exactly. Being from District 2, and not being a weapons genius or poor enough to mine the quarry, it’s common sense that I would have grow up to be a Peacekeeper. I was good enough to be at least that—I was obedient, good-looking, and richer than most people in my district, and besides, my parents were Peacekeepers as well. I never dared to speak out. Ever. If I did, then I would receive a slap and be reminded that the Capitol controlled my future and me. I was mediocre at my studies, and listened to my teacher, which was more than I can say for half my class. I was a doll, a figure. An object. I was molded, dressed up, had my path chosen for me. I had never been shown love, actually. Sure, my parents allowed me to sleep under their roof and feed me their food, but for what? For me to become another Capitol slave? Underneath everything, under the false smiles, the strained hugs, I knew there was nothing in them. They hated me. And I hated them, almost as much as I hated the Capitol. 96 years. That’s how long it has been since the Fire Rebellion. We learn about it once a year in school, and the teacher makes the day so miserable, no one can forget. And no one talks about it after that day, until the next year. When the Girl on Fire stormed the capitol. Killed the President, her own leader. It just went downhill from there, trust me. A string of conspiracies and corruptions, assassins and deaths, followed. Not even maybe 10 years after the Rebellion, the Capitol was set back to it’s “former glory”. Exactly as it was—no added harshness, yet no freedom. A return to the old ways, back to the Hunger Games. **And I hated it**. Everyone, everything. Just like my parents, deep down, and unrevealing. But I learn from mistakes. You can’t be full of complete hatred; else everything will just fall apart. Hidden right next to my loath, there is an undoubted love. For words, for life. In class, I used to drink in every poem my teacher recited, and remembered them. Unlike the Rules of the Capitol, which we were required to recite every morning, I memorize each and every poem, digging into them in my mind, unallowing myself to forget, exploring each one, finding each hidden message. If I can, I write them down in secret. I flinch to know what my parents would have done if they caught me. And then smile when the word ‘defiance’ comes to mind. Secret defiance. But I don’t care. At least on the inside, I don’t. I used to steal away to the healer’s garden, under night’s grateful cover. There, with my school pencils and paper, I would sit and wait for the midnight blossom, a flower whose nectar can help heal minor cuts, to release it’s grasp on it’s petals, slipping out it’s beauty. It had white petals with gold accents, which slightly glowered in the dark night. Almost like a lily, but more regal-like. I would sit, and stare, taking in its grace as long as my mind could muster. And then I would write. I could sit and scribble down literally countless poems, just going on and on about the blossom, using the techniques I picked up from the poems I had memorized, oblivious to the blisters appearing on my fingers. And when the midnight blossom’s petals sealed themselves back up again, moments before the sun rose above the valley to proclaim the new day, I knew it was time to return home. To the lies. Writing was the only thing I never had contempt for.

     But it was stripped away from me, both the midnight blossom and the poems, on the day of the reaping. My name was only entered once; I had no need for the tesserae. As my teacher once told my class, though, it only takes one entry. Just one entry to seal your fate. My mother didn’t waste much time on making me look presentable, just fitting me into a simple, medium-length pewter grey dress and flats and tying my silky dirty blonde hair back into a black bow, attempting to make me inconspicuous, to make me easily forgettable. We sat in silence and barely ate anything for breakfast, and headed silently to the reaping. I was shuffled into my age group, once at the town square, silently, everyone avoiding everybody else’s eyes, staring at the ground. Everyone except the Good Ones. Also known as the Trainers, the Winners, the Careers, or even the Killers, these are the ones who have been illegally training for the Games their entire lives. They laughed and talked among each other loudly, as if trying to boast their superiority and willingness in the face of potential death. The rest of the morning dragged on and on, like the day where we relearn about the Fire Rebellion. Our escort (whose name I prefer not to know) acted out her excitement over zealously, making the experience extremely fake. She sauntered over to the big metallic lottery wheel, turned the handle, and a small wooden ball with the girl tribute’s name slid out. She cleared her throat. And said my name. “Ella Hopkins”. I didn’t move. I don’t think I could have, anyways. Was I surprised? A little. Was I scared? Yes. Did I care? Hell no. What was I going to do? Try to run? I stared numbly at the escort beaming at me, beckoning me to come up, to come willingly to my death, until two Peacekeepers grasped my arms and dragged me up to the platform. Once we were up on the stage, I then realized that they were my parents. Assisting me to my doom. I’m sure they will shed a few tears for the camera, say how devastating it was to take me up there, but I know that they’re relieved to rid the house of one more mouth to feed. Thanks mom and dad. They step down, and the boy tribute is called. It’s a Good One. He’s glowering at me, either because he’s already deciding how to kill me, or because I was chosen instead of a girl Good One. I swear all of the female Good Ones were staring daggers at me, wishing they could throw some instead. The escort wished us good luck, and to shake hands, but neither of us moved an inch. We didn’t even acknowledge each other. Just stared into the sea of people staring blankly at me. Half the people don’t even know my name. The other half probably didn’t want to. No volunteers for the nameless girl.

     You know what happens after that. We got whisked away to a room to be sent off by our families. My parents didn’t come into the room. No one did. The security guard snuck glances at me, pity obvious in his eyes. After awhile, I just buried my head into a soft velvet pillow, attempting to escape his stares. I didn’t want his sympathy. All I want is a pen and paper. What a poem this would be. A slow hour passed, a still no one entered my room. After, I was taken to the train, which transported Hugo, a.k.a the Good One, and I to the Capitol. All I remember from the ride was my room. I stayed in there, never leaving, having my food served to me in bed. I didn’t want to plan my survival. I won’t survive, so why try? I’d just let Hugo get more time to train. He deserved it. I was given pencils and paper, so all I did was write and write, sleeping when my hands were to swollen to do so. We eventually made it to the Capitol, where I was prepared by a jittering bunch of idiots in bright colors, who kept trying to make conversation. I just stared at them with empty eyes, creating poems in my head. They just don’t get it. That’s how I responded to everything—when in the Training Center, when the Gamemakers were giving me points, to Caesar Flickerman—with empty eyes and small talk, when needed. I didn’t sleep the night before the Games. Just stood up on the roof of the building where all the tributes were staying and watched the party in the streets below, occasionally creating a poem here or there. I kept all my poems from the train in a stash under my pillow—no one was ever going to see those. The morning of the Games was as quiet as the reaping day. My escort tried her little heart out to make me cheery, but why should she even attempt? Hugo was wordless, a look on his face as if he was deep in thought. I hope he wins, for the district. Or someone from District 11. I like that district. My prep team hustled me to the raising platform, messing with me the whole way, and then after a bit, left me. I wordlessly pulled out the ridiculous twirled bun that they put in my hair and shook my soft, straight hair loose. Much better.

 

     I didn’t flinch, or even experience butterflies when the platform began to rise. I was ready for death. The metal ground beneath me rose and rose, for minutes at least, until blessed sunlight appeared above me, and soon, along with 21 other tributes, including Hugo, was standing in the middle of a HUGE, endless African plain. Interesting. A boab tree about 300 yards from us was littered with the usual supplies. Weapons, food, etc. Thin, withered trees littered the hot plain. The ground looked rock solid, dry, and I couldn’t see any water source, but I’m sure there would be a water hole. And various threatening species of animals along with it. I could faintly hear the countdown, but paid no attention. My eyes searched for Hugo, and found him 8 people away. _Look at me_ , I urged. Surprisingly, he turned ever so slightly towards me, looking at me out of the corner of his eye. _Win this. I won’t be able to._ I mouthed. He turned his head away, but I new he got it. He got it how I gave him more valuable training time. How I sacrificed myself.  How I refused the Capitol, refused to be toyed with by the Gamemakers, refused to acknowledge my fear. I will not fear death, not run from it. How very poetic… **2,1,GO!!**  The timer went off. I coolly stepped off my standing point, watching Hugo masterfully fly towards the boab, seize a large black bag, a long sword, a tent bag, and a compass case, and fly off again, eastbound. Nice, I thought. Taking a deep breath, I turned around, lightly, and on the balls of my toes. _It will be only a matter of time_ , I thought, standing beneath the sun’s warm, kind rays. What an oxymoron. Warm and kind in the Hunger Games. Before my thoughts could trail any further though, some object plowed into my legs, knocking me down, both from surprise and pain. My face hit the hard-packed earth and the person rolled me around to my back, so I was facing her, and sat on my stomach, legs straddling me, locking me in place, forcing me to look at her. She was my height, with luscious strawberry red hair, a sprinkle of freckles, and green eyes illuminated by hate and disgust. In her hand was a knife set. I shook my head, smiling. “What?!” my killer screeched. “If I’m going to be the first one to die, you’re going to have to make it quick. Save the drama for further in the Game.” I told her. The girl looked at me, mouth slightly open, then glanced around to check if this was a trap. It wasn’t—everyone was scattering in his or her own directions besides a few fighting it out at the boab tree. The fight looked pretty matched, though, between two boys with medieval-looking swords, both Good Ones. That would take awhile, and I would be the first one to die. Good, the cameras would center in on me. I hope my parents see this next part. I closed me eyes and opened my mouth, and out flowed a poem, by a women named Emma Dickson, I think. It was one that I simply remembered—it wasn’t a particular favorite, but it seemed appropriate:         

_“So proud she was to die_

_It made us all ashamed_

_That what we cherished, so unknown_

_To her desire seemed._

_So satisfied to go_

_Where none of us should be,_

_Immediately, that anguish stooped_

_Almost to jealousy.”_

   There. I’m done. With my poem, with life. I barely risked cracking my eyes open, yet saw the girl put back her knife kit, and gently pull a long dagger out her back pocket. I closed my eyes again, grateful for the quick death. “That was beautiful,” the girl whispered, before plunging her knife down right into my heart. “Thank you.” I whispered, and whether she heard it, I’m not sure. One word flashed across my mind before I was released from life. Defiance. Secret defiance.


	2. Hugo Rider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hugo Rider, the male *cough cough* Career Tribute from District 2, has a lil somethin' somethin' for Ella...which contradicts his father's orders and in the arena...when, you know, Ella dies

     Why change something when it’s already doing fine for you? When you have something good going on, why alter it, screw it up, throw it out of balance? Why venture into the unknown, into the darkness, into forbidden territory. They will only tear you down there. And then what? You can’t go back. All you can do is hope, pray for help. And help will come, to unwind the binding darkness. Or not. Then you’re screwed. It seems as if everything is forcing all of their power against you. Yet you have to fight it, attempt to resurface from the pitch-black foreignness. I tried to. I couldn’t.

***

      My life was good. Not great, just good. I was in control of it, which is more than I can say for the majority of my district. Most of the populations of District 2 are either controlled by the throngs of Peacekeepers, or in the palm of powerful quarry owner’s hands, who promised money in return for… various services. But I had a name, an identity. I could walk down a street and be clapped on the back with pride, or glared at in secret. Secret loathes and hatred for whom I was. Hugo Rider, the Good One. Everyone knew me, or say my family. My great-grandfather, grandfather, and father, Robert Rider, had all been male tributes by some sheer chance, and all won that years’ Hunger Games. That was everything. The Hunger Games. The Game of Hunger? No, more like the Game of Torture. Torturous deaths, situations, decisions.

       Everywhere I turned, I was blatantly reminded. I could someday be chosen, and I WILL win. No plan B. No plan B meant every single day of my life be spent training. Around 2nd grade, I dropped out of school to go into more “extensive” training. What a laugh. More extensive, how about more rigorous or more dangerous? What makes it even better is that when I get picked, my dad will be my trainer. It won’t be too bad considering that he already is. Some people may think ‘Oh, that’s good. At least it’s not some other stranger.’ What another laugh. My father doesn’t care about how far or hard he pushes me. Once, I broke my ankle halfway through training. When I asked for leave, my father screamed at me, telling me that if I was too weak to handle a little pain, then I should just as well kill myself, that if I couldn’t stand a broken ankle, then I’ll _never_ live through the Hunger Games. I finished that day’s training stained with my own blood and tears.

       My father _was_ a stranger. The only difference was that we lived under the same roof, in Winner’s Way. The Way was a smallish area where the victors lived if they ever managed to come back from the Hunger Games. The Torture Games. The Way reeked of false happiness—dying flowers, cracked pastel paint on the sidewalk, chipping paint on the houses, and old and crumbling signs of congratulations and joyous returns. It was bleak; the only colors were shades of grey. No one lived there except my father and I. My mother died when I was born, and that was that. I never asked for more information from my father. I feared the man who brought me to life, yet I handed over my time and energy to him, training from 5:30 to 10:00 every day. Weight lifting and core building from 5:30- 8:00. Endurance running from 8:00- 11:30. Blade training at 11:30 to 2:30. One-on-one combat at 2:30 until 5:00. Special skills from 5:00 to 8:00. Survival practice from 8:00 to 10:00. Every day, same routine. I was prepared for any situation, when needed. I was strong, powerful, and my father trained me to take someone’s life away without a second thought of guilt. I was a killing machine, made specially by my father, and for the Games. The Torture Games. I heard once in town a butcher and his customer whispering like a pair of teenage girls when I passed them on the way to the training area, early in the morning, before the sun dared to appear above the horizon. “Where is that boy going?” the buyer asked in a hushed voice. “To the place his pa set up for him practice his killin’.” The butcher informed him. The buyer shook his head. “Isn’t that illegal? What about the Peacekeepers?” the customer asked. The butcher shrugged. “They don’t care as long as he’ll win. Winning the Games will mean more money for them, probably to spend on morphling.” He replied.  “Poor sap” the buyer said, almost to himself. “The boy is worked every day. Some wonder he hasn’t snapped. His pa is forcing him to train an’ train his hide off. The boy can’t even choose when he wants to eat. His pa does.” The butcher whispered, but not quietly enough. I heard, grit my teeth, and walked away, fuming silently. _I_ chose when I wanted to eat. I chose if I went to the training area. I chose if I even wanted to get up and train. Not my father, not anyone. I was _nobody’s_ pawn. I refused to be, to even think that.

      The day of the reaping was oddly anxious. My father was on the edge of his nerves, and I knew better than to talk to him, else I would most likely get beaten. He wanted me to be called as a tribute, at long last. I was 16 years old—2 more years until I would be ineligible. My father was 13 when he was called as a tribute. My father had gotten tessara 87 times this year, but just threw the collection of mush and old flour out wastefully. He just wanted my name entered more and more. I hadn’t found this out until I found the empty sack behind a clump of dead tulips, but by then, my name had already been entered 69 times. It was almost like a drug, so addicting, the promise of me being picked. I dressed myself in basic black training clothes, nothing too special. I forced down my breakfast under my father’s heavy eye, the food sitting in my stomach like a rock. Oh well. After we were all prepared, we took a sleek, black, Peacekeeper limousine down to the town square. There, my father departed to the stage, where he took his honorary place in the seat to the right of the escort’s. I went to stand in my age group. I didn’t socialize with the others. I didn’t want to. Even though I was more prepared than, say, an untrained 12 year old, my stomach churned heavily with anticipation and nervousness. I warily eyed up two boys to my right, laughing a little _too_ loudly, trying to appear confident in the uncomfortable setting. They stopped talking at my obvious glare. Yes, they knew who I was, per usual. Good, let them squirm.

      Amelia Troufle, the escort of District 2, flounced onto the stage, sporting a robust yellow suit-and-skirt, her heels launching her about an extra foot into the air. Geez. She gushed on and on, and I soon zoned out. Maybe this will be the year, counting if Amelia gets through the speech quicker. I feel a tingling on the back of my neck, and jerk my head around, and see my father glaring at me darkly. Great, just great. My father detested whenever someone wasn’t paying attention. This was going to get me an extra 2 hours of training tomorrow. Fun. Snapping out of his silent scolding, my father smiled and waved at the cameras on-cue, acting out his facial expressions to seem as if this were the happiest day of his life. Maybe it will be, if I get chosen. Amelia focuses the camera back onto herself, so that she can get to the Tribute name picking. Confidently strutting up to a cold metal lottery wheel, she gives a tiny, prissy spin, and, smiling from ear to ear towards the camera, called out the female Tribute’s name. I’m expecting Rachel Austins, Anastasia Martin, or even Emily Demeal, all Good Ones whose names have been entered into the pool as many, if not more, times as mine has. No, it’s none of them. It’s not even a Good One. “Ella Hopkins.” Hopkins, Hopkins, where have I heard that name before? Maybe I haven’t, and it’s just me. No one steps forward. What’s going on? People start to murmur and move hastily out of the way as two Peacekeepers escort a girl, my age by the looks of it, onto the stage. Words like “betrayal”, “How could they?” and “Poor girl” reach my ears. The girl is petite, with silky dark blonde hair, and big, mouse-like, grey eyes. She actually looks a little bit like the Peacekeeper…oh, I understand, and a wave of pity washes over me. That’s weird. I shake my head, as if trying to rid myself of this overpowering feeling. I never pity anyone, anything. Why should I care about this girl?

      Yet before I can contemplate this odd feeling, Amelia loudly clears her voice in the microphone, making me flinch involuntarily. She holds the male Tribute’s name. This is it. This is it. This could be it. An end to the training, the pain. My pain. If my name is called, I will be free. I WILL win the Hunger Games, and never have to suffer again. The Torture Games. I close my eyes and pray silently, even though I don’t have a god. My breath becomes haggard as I wait. Every second is a year. I open my eyes again to see Amelia produce a small wooden ball between her fingertips. **_Come on. Call it._** “Hugo Rider”. My knees almost buckle. She called me. This is it! I glance up and see my father, tears hidden masterfully in his eyes. Tears of joy. Finally, years of dedication put to use. I proudly stride up to the stage, climbing the steps two at a time. I’m half tempted to shake Amelia’s hand. Amelia beams at my willingness and energy and asks Ella and I to shake hands. I glance over and my energy seeps out of me immediately.

      Ella was different. I recognized her from 1st grade, from when I sat next to her in school. She never talked in class. After I dropped out, I rarely saw her, sometimes in town or what not. Her hair was tied fluidly behind her in a black bow. She was dressed in a modest dark grey dress, nothing special, like me. She was small, smaller next to me. Actually, she was a mouse. And that would make me the cat. It was her eyes, though, maybe her expression, that hit home. Ella was obviously capable of hiding her emotions, but not entirely. I could see her jaw, as rigid as a taught wire. The muscles on her hands were clenched shut. She was angry, but on the outside, she was oblivious. Blank. Her eyes were anything but. Ella’s eyes were deep, mesmerizing pools of grey. They burned with fury and embarrassment. They burned with the ever-familiar hate. But for what? I couldn’t tell, and that frustrated me. I felt my own jaw clench and turned away, not wanting to make her think that I disliked her or anything. She was a code—there’s the code right in front of you, but you can’t figure out the intentions or underlying message. This was new.

      We went through the customary farewells, but my father didn’t come to the room where I was being contained. Why would he need to, he was coming with me. After a slow hour, my guard guided me to the train where a crowd gathered to wish me off. Not Ella. Ugh, there’s that pity feeling again. On the train, I briefly spent time in my room getting to know my surroundings before quickly going to the dining area so as not to make my father wait. He was, but was sitting down at a mahogany table, heaping with food, laughing with Amelia. Wow, today was a day of firsts. “It’s so great he’s been chosen at last. I was starting to get worried,” I heard him say as I approached. Then I noticed something amiss. “Where’s Ella?” I asked, confusion taking the place a surprise. Amelia laughed and waved her hand, but my father stopped talking immediately and his customary dark, distasteful look took over again. “Oh, she is still a little upset and won’t be joining us right now.” Amelia said airily. My father rolled his eyes and stood up, easily dominating the room and forcing the attention of him. “The girl’s not in this anymore. She’s locked herself in her room. If she’s too scared or weak to fight, then let her be. Too bad for her. We cannot concern ourselves with her disabilities. _She_ is the weak link. Break away from her.” He said dejectedly. “Training in half an hour in the room five doors down from yours. You don’t want to make me wait like I did just now.” My father called as he walked out the door, leaving Amelia and I alone. I glared after him, struggling to keep from blowing up. _How could he do this?_ Just leave Ella to die? Amelia patted my back sympathetically. I shrugged her off and stalked away. I didn’t want her pity.

      It was no better at the Capitol. I practiced in the Training Center fiercely, flexing all my power, and after, trained more in-depth with my father, getting only maybe 4 hours of sleep at the max. I didn’t care. People noticed me, already started to fear me. I didn’t care about that either. All I cared about was Ella. It was horrible. She was throwing her life away. All she did was smuggle a pen and paper inside the Training Center and sit in the corner by herself, scribbling down words in her own world the entire time. I watched her, kept an eye on her every second I could spare. What was the most disturbing was that she was content, a light, foreboding smile on her lips and a far-away look in those deep grey eyes. A far cry from, say, the slim black-haired girl who would break down and cry in the middle of the Training Center, or the tall, white-haired girl, who wouldn’t stop muttering to herself, laughing aloud every so often like a maniac.

      The night before the Games, I lost it. I couldn’t stand the thought of Ella going into the arena so unprepared and so naïve. I couldn’t. I picked my way to her room, careful not to make any sound at all so not to wake my father. Then we’d have a BIG problem. My heart jumped and it felt like I couldn’t breath, like a weight was on my chest, at every sound. “Fraternizing with the enemy,” my father would call it. I ever so carefully made it to her room, but she wasn’t there. Of course not. I knew just where she would be. Just as quietly as I was going to her room, I ventured up to the roof in search of Ella. The door was open just a crack, illuminated light spilling into to dark staircase. I looked out cautiously. She _was_ there. Ella was perched at the edge, looking over to the streets, a thoughtful look on her face, serene as always, with a tinge of a scowl forming on her features. I have to. I have to talk to her. Why didn’t I before? Now. This moment was meant for us, not for training, not for the Hunger Games, the Torture games, only for us. I wanted to go to Ella, to let her know that I was here for her. To let her know that even though she didn’t know it, in a way, she was here for me when no one else was. My father wasn’t here for me. He was here for the victory.

      I took one step out, Ella’s name on my lips, but the words choked back in my throat, like taffy, when an iron grip pulled me right back through the door again, back into the darkness again. No, please, don’t. The hands shoved me up against the cold metallic wall, stinging my bare arms. “What do you think your doing?” a voice growled at me, squeezing hard. I tried not to cry out. “You WILL NOT talk to her. I. Told. You. Already. She WILL die. You WILL win. LEAVE HER. I will kill her myself if you won’t let her go!” My father threatened. That’s it. This is stopping now. I will not let this man get in my way. Anger burning my vision, an unbelievable strength seared through me. I shoved back, knocking the man who won the Hunger Games on shear strength, against the opposite wall, dumbfounded. My hand slipped back into my rear pocket where I always kept a small knife, whipping it out and pressing it against the enraged man’s neck. Fury flamed clearly in my father’s eyes, promising punishment. “Don’t even. Don’t *ever* touch Ella. If you do… I’ll be the first one to die in the Hunger Games.” I snapped back. The Torture Games. I watched in satisfaction as the rage seeped out of his features at my own threat. “You wouldn’t.” he chocked out, his voice cracking. I leaned in close, not an inch from his face, my hair falling between us, separating the contrasting intensities. “I will. I swear I will.” I whisper, my voice as steely cold as I could make it. I step back, my knuckles white, still clutching my weapon in defense. My father grasped the stair railing for support, his frame energy–stricken. For the first time in my life, I was the more powerful one. I leaned in once more, making my voice as quiet as death. “And one more thing. Don’t show up tomorrow. I don’t want to see your face. Remember what I said.” With one more resentful glance towards the door, towards Ella, I slip down the steps, breaking into a run once I hit the bottom stair. I am oblivious to anything, any feeling besides fury towards my father, but before I get too far out of hearing range, I hear him start to sob. Fine. Let him cry. He always let me.

      I got absolutely no sleep that night. I tripped over to the breakfast table around 8:30, tired beyond doubt, but immediately snapped to attention when I saw Amelia and Ella already there. Ella was dressed in the customary grey pullover and black pants, her hair tied in an unusual twirled bun; by the glower on her face, she hated it. I caught her eye, and she held it a moment before dropping it, blushing. I felt my own face flush, and saw Amelia smile broadly. “Well…” she said winking at me. “DON’T. EVEN.” I shot her down, getting an apple to munch on as a weak breakfast. Amelia looked hurt, but continued to try to cheer us up. I always wondered where the Capitol picked her up. All through breakfast, I felt Ella’s heavy eyes on me, but I tried not to notice. My father never came to breakfast. My prep team arrived to see me off, even though I didn’t take the time to get to know them, and they showed me off to a room with a large glass cylinder with a metal bottom, wishing me luck before they left. I didn’t need luck. I had shear ability instead. My mind was oddly blank for once, as peaceful as Ella, and I was somewhat relieved when the platform began to rise. Now’s the time. The time for performance. I was a seasoned actor, ready for the show to start. This is my show. I was the face of fear. I was prepared. The sky gave way overhead of me, and m surroundings spread out before me. An dry plain. African, maybe? Huh. Thank goodness it’s not some tundra. My attention focused in on a HUGE tree littered with supplies, and my vision zoned in on a nice-looking sword and one of the largest black canvas bag. Perfect. I felt a tingling in the back of my neck, just like at the reaping, and sent shivers down my spine. Ugh. I turned, observing the semi-circle of other tributes around me. No biggie. I observed these people, and none matched my ability, but the white haired girl freaked me out. I turned the other way, and saw who was trying to achieve my attention. Ella was at the edge of the semi-circle, maybe 10-ish or so people away, staring attentively at me, her eyes boring holes in me. I didn’t know what she was looking at until I saw her lips moving. What… ‘Win this…I won’t be able to…’ WHAT! She can’t just give up! I knew she didn’t train or anything, but she can’t just not do anything! I turned my face away so she wouldn’t see the oncoming tears. I’ve never cried, not even for my mother. I—CRAP. THE CLOCK…2,1, GO! Taken aback by the lack of time to prepare for my take-off, I shook my head, tripping off my platform. I can’t do this not now. I let my instincts kick in and flew towards the large tree, easily bypassing the front-runner. I grabbed the sword, the bag I wanted, an extra tent bag, and a compass. You always need a compass, and from what I saw, there was only one. I grabbed all of that and was at the edge of a never-ending field of large African grasses by the time the front-runners reached the tree. I ran a bit, then crouching down, extremely carefully double-backed towards the edge of the grasses. The girl with black hair raced past me, unnoticed, but she was the only one.

      I peered out into the clearing. Surprisingly, everyone was quickly scattering. Yet, two boys had grabbed large, gem-encrusted swords and were stupidly going at it under the tree like sitting ducks. A red head was slinking around the remains, picking up a slim knife, putting it in her back pocket, some other supplies, and a knife set, by the looks of it. And then there was Ella. She lightly stepped off her platform, letting the sunshine in her face, the ghost of a smile forming on her lips, as if remembering an old joke. She was stunning, like a small, frail angel, the sun setting her hair ablaze like dusted gold. Then the red head hit. She plowed into Ella’s legs, and Ella crumpled under her, letting out a gasp of surprise. Don’t. Don’t go. She’ll just die later on anyways. Don’t. I unconsciously slipped out my knife and gripped it by the blade, allowing the pain to reach me, allowing the blood to flow. I saw the red head pull out her newly acquired knife set. NO. Holding myself back is the by far the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Harder than any training exercise. I know that with the end of the training practice, there’s a sense of completion. Nothing good will come at the end of this. I unwillingly look out into the African tundra, and see the girl pause at something Ella says, and look around, panicked. A look of utter surprise then takes over, and she stops. I can’t tell what’s going on until I see that Ella’s saying something. No, reciting something. By her tranquil appearance, I can tell she’s repeating a poem. The red head stops, and sets down her knife kit. Wow…the power of words. Maybe she’ll let…no. The girl pulls out her dagger and says something to Ella, and Ella beams before— I look away. That’s that. Even I, Hugo Rider, couldn’t save her. Ella Hopkins. Just saying her name fills me with despair to the brink of… I don’t know. Would I cry? I almost did. I return my knife to my pocket and wrap my hand with a bandage from the canvas bag, gathering my supplies together and heading east, according to my compass. I, Hugo Rider, WILL win the Hunger Games. The Torture Games. Not for my father. Not for District 2. Not even for myself. For Ella Hopkins, the girl who wouldn’t fight. I, though, will fight.      


End file.
